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«I discovered Jerusalem artichokes in Provence. A friend had made a chicken dish with carrots, butternut squash and something called topinambour. The chunky pieces of topinambour looked like potatoes, but they tasted like artichoke! It was love at first bite: I set off to learn everything I could about my new flame; I soon ferreted out that it had travelled a long and winding path.

Born in the United States long before it was called the United States, my hero was raised by a Native American tribe. A French explorer crossed its path on Cape Cod. He described it as the root of a plant from the sunflower family and noted that it tasted much like artichoke. He sent samples to France, where the Swedish naturalist who then ruled over plant names christened it topinambour after the Tupinamba, a Brazilian tribe who had never eaten the root (they were cannibals) but happened to be visiting the royal court (at gun point) around the time the samples arrived. The Italians adopted a more descriptive name: Girasole Articocco (sunflower artichoke). One night someone had too much to drink, girasole became Jerusalem, and this hapless tuber became a Jerusalem artichoke, even though it had never seen Jerusalem or an artichoke. In recent times, some good souls hoping to right the wrongs of the past launched a movement to rename my hero sunchoke (sunflower artichoke) or sunroot (sunflower root). Sadly, these noble attempts only add to the confusion.

Half a century before, across the Atlantic, the topinambour served the hungry French during the second world war. It served them so well and so much that the French overdosed on its robust flavor and banned it from their dining rooms, where it remained an outcast for nearly sixty years. Thanks to some forward-thinking minds, it is now starting to overcome its stigma and to enjoy a new youth on open-minded tables across France. But there is still a long way to go to rehabilitate the topinambour. In the latest blow to an already trying life, an impostor is stealing part of the glory by usurping its name. When I see “Artichaut de Jerusalem” mentioned in French books, half the time it doesn’t refer to my homely-looking topinambour but to a dashing cucurbita, the custard squash. I hope to have done my part by setting down these facts, and I hope you’ll enjoy your date with “topinambour mon amour” in the next recipe.»